and discovered together. It was noon when he reached the office.

From the boy at the entrance he learned that Mr. Marrineal had come in.
Doubtless he would find a summons on his desk. None was there. Perhaps
Marrineal would come to him. He waited. Nothing. Taking up the routine
of the day, he turned to his proofs, with a view to laying out his
schedule.

The top one was his editorial on the strikers' cause.

Across it was blue-penciled the word "Killed."

Banneker snatched up the morning's issue. The editorial was not there.
In its place he read, from the top of the column: "And though all the
winds of doctrine blow"--and so on, to the close of Milton's proud
challenge, followed by:

"Would You Let Your Baby Drink Carbolic?"

For the strike editorial had been substituted one of Banneker's typical
"mother-fetchers," as he termed them, very useful in their way, and
highly approved by the local health authorities. This one was on the
subject of pure milk. Its association with the excerpt from the
Areopagitica (which, having been set for a standing head, was not cut
out by the "Killed") set the final touch of irony upon the matter. Even
in his fury Banneker laughed.

He next considered the handwriting of the blue-penciled monosyllable. It
was not Marrineal's blunt, backhand script. Whose was it? Haring's?
Trailing the proof in his hand he went to the business manager's room.

"Did you kill this?"

"Yes." Haring got to his feet, white and shaking. "For God's sake, Mr.
Banneker--"

"I'm not going to hurt you--yet. By what right did you do it?"

"Orders."

"Marrineal's?"

"Yes."

With no further word, Banneker strode to the owner's office, pushed open
the door, and entered. Marrineal looked up, slightly frowning.

"Did you kill this editorial?"

Marrineal's frown changed to a smile. "Sit down, Mr. Banneker."

"Marrineal, did you kill my editorial?"

"Isn't your tone a trifle peremptory, for an employee?"

"It won't take more than five seconds for me to cease to be an
employee," said Banneker grimly.

"Ah? I trust you're not thinking of resigning. By the way, some reporter
called on me last week to confirm a rumor that you were about to resign.
Let me see; what paper? Ah; yes; it wasn't a newspaper, at least, not
exactly. The Searchlight. I told her--it happened to be a woman--that
the story was quite absurd."

Something in the nature of a cold trickle seemed to be flowing between
Banneker's brain a